Thursday September 16 2010 9:27 pm
Bye, Buck.
For two years, while I lived alone in Fremont and worked at the Fruit Stand, I’d find myself, on nights a little too lonely to just sit at home and re-watch Buffy episodes, taking up bar-space at the Buckaroo Tavern. The very definition of dive bar, it was not a place to go and hook up, be hit on, or really talk to anyone unless you actually wanted to. It was the place to go and listen to a non-stop stream of classic rock and shoot some pool. And I made a tiny tradition for myself of going to the Buck to drink while I filed my taxes via their wi-fi.
I haven’t been in in months. Something about my sister moving in with me, a different (much less stressful) job, and life generally having a more reliable routine have obviated the need for the Buckaroo, for me. But when it was there, and when I needed it, I was so glad it was there. And it was necessary to have someplace like that, for a single girl to go and get a cheap, cheap beer at one in the morning, and play a free game of pool with the bartender. For me to walk right in, and stay for three hours, chatting to the bartenders, after a stranger had followed me all the way down the street (and, actually, into the bar) from my bus stop. Everyone I met at the Buck was suddenly my best friend — though none were relationships that existed outside of the walls of the tavern.
It’s closing tomorrow. I stepped in tonight to say good-bye, but really, it’s already gone. It’s bloated with people I don’t recognize in the slightest, taking up every inch of available space. Random people man-handled me getting past the two inches I was occupying, and I felt very much like a stranger in my own home. I had an Odyssean urge to throw the suitors out and reclaim my territory, preferably via bloodshed. A tiny cluster of regulars whom I did recognize hovered outside, smoking, and casting angry, sad, annoyed, and amused looks at the throngs inside. Realizing that, having ordered my last Buckaroo drink, I was free of some sort of (completely imaginary) obligation, I chugged it and left. And like an adult, I resisted the desire to pour it on the ground as a blessing and a plea to the great gods of the dive bar to LET MINE LIVE.
It’s too late anyway.
